My mother never threw away the cloth left over from sewing. Under the sewing basket there was always a heap of coloured scraps. Those are 자투리, jaturi — the small pieces left when the cloth has been cut.
They were not waste. Sew a few together and you had a cover for the table. Sew more and you had a 조각보, jogakbo, a patchwork wrapping cloth. Others ended up as rags, or as clothes for a doll. A pattern came out of the joins that whole cloth could never have given you: the pieces had nothing in common, so at every seam the colours collided, and the collisions were the pattern.
The word is still in work. Jaturi time, jaturi land. Whatever is left over and not quite whole, we still call by this name.
At the far edge of the flowerbed in our apartment complex, on a scrap of ground nobody has any use for, somebody has put in cosmos.